The Hospice gave my family the chance to say goodbye to our Dad

I wrote a feature last week in the Derry Journal to mark the 25th year of the Foyle Hospice in Derry. My Dad was a patient in the Hospice in October 2009.....

Two year’s ago my father’s prostate cancer went from manageable to terminal.

He had battled the disease for four years before that day the doctors told him there was nothing more they could do.

Over the next few weeks and months my Dad – who was a strong-willed, fiercely independent man – got sicker and weaker and eventually so tired that his legs couldn’t carry his weight.

We managed at home for a time, our family rallying around, trying our best to function under a black cloud that my Dad’s illness had brought over our lives.

Monica from the Foyle Hospice was a regular visitor to our house. She listened when Dad needed to talk, she was there with a shoulder when we needed to cry, she knew all the answers when confusion, fear and frustration overwhelmed us. She was honest, caring and comforting.

Dad didn’t want to go to a hospice, he wanted to stay at home with us, but as he entered the last few weeks of his life, and his body shut down, we all knew we needed extra help with his care and the Hospice offered Dad respite care.

I was at work when my sister and Mum drove Dad to the Foyle Hospice. As I sat at my desk I could only imagine what was going through his mind when he left the home he shared with my Mum for 40 years and made his way down the tree-lined avenue that led to the Foyle Hospice.

He was met at the door by a beaming nurse who showed him his comfy, cosy room, complete with TV and glorious view over the fields and Foyle Bridge.

When I arrived later that evening I found that in just a few hours the doctors and nurses had assessed him and made him comfortable – so comfortable that he was like his old self again, raving about the ensuite bathroom and asking what time the Man City match was starting. They took away his pain, eased his concerns, brought back his humour. The Hospice gave us our Dad back for a few weeks.

For the next few weeks we circled around that room, around our new family headquarters, like satellites. Dad was kept happy and comfortable with constant care from the Hospice doctors and nurses. They treated him with dignity and grace. Nothing was too much trouble for them. He raved about the Hospice chef who, hearing how he loved lemon merangie pie, fashioned him one from scratch and delivered a slice to his room with a mug of hot tea.

They set up his WiFi connection so he could view photographs of his brand new grandson, the first to carry the Breslin name.

The Hospice was not somewhere my father went to die; in many ways it brought him back to life, back to us, before he passed away.

I would often arrive in the afternoons to find Bishop Daly and himself debating world politics animatedly, him joking with the nurses, my mum and him out in the garden, looking out over the city where they met, married and raised four children.

They handled everything physical, mental and emotional so that my father felt no pain at all in the final weeks of his life. He slept well, he was comfortable, he ate, he caught up with old friends that came to see him, he laughed. For that we will be eternally grateful.

The peace they gave him allowed us, in those final weeks, to be a family.

They afforded us the time to talk, to just be together in a beautiful, peaceful environment without beeping and whirring machines.

I often sat in the communal room. It was a peaceful place for reflection, filled with awe-inspiring paintings and art donated by the families of loved ones whose lives the Hospice touched in a positive way.

I remember reading a poem in a frame. It said…

“When the natural exhultation of this day fades into the reality of daily life, the doors of this hallowed place will welcome its first patients. For them the shadows will have lengthened, their evening has come, their busy world has hushed, the fever of life is all but over and the work is all done.”

My Dad knew when he was almost at the end of his own journey and requested to go home. The Hospice, knowing how very ill he was, respected his wishes and organised a team of nurses to help our family with his care.

He arrived home by ambulance on a sunny Tuesday November afternoon. Within the hour the nurses were there with us, explaining how his hi-tech bed worked, about his medication.

He wanted to come home and be surrounded by his family, his books, the sound of the trees and his grandchildren playing in the garden.

The nurses - Una, Paula and a band of girls - prepared us for what was to come. They gently helped us get ready to let him go. They kept Dad pain-free and happy. They talked, they listened, they answered our difficult questions openly and honestly. They picked us up from the floor when we couldn’t go on, they held our hands through it all.

Monica from the Hospice was a constant visitor. As Dad neared the end she spoke to us. I remember her standing by the window in Mum’s living room telling us that we must prepare ourselves and gather the family, that the end was very near for my father.

The sun was shining through her blonde hair, giving her a halo of sorts. Like all the staff in the Hospice, she was an angel on earth, doing God’s work.

My family will be forever grateful to all of them for the care they gave Dad and us during his illness.

My father passed away at home surrounded by his family on November 17th 2009.

He was 69 years-old. He was husband to Gloria, father to Aidan, Carla, me and Cathal and proud grandfather to eight grandchildren.

It is still difficult to see a landscape that doesn’t include him. Yet I see him every time my youngest son smiles, I feel him in my spirit.

When I’m lost, up he pops - philosophical, intellectual, consoling. He’ll forever be my guiding light.

Did I get the job?

The youngest boy is hopefully heading for playschool this September and I have him booked in with a place near where we live.
I got a letter from them today asking him to come in for an ‘interview’ at the end of this week. An interview. With a three-year-old.
I can only imagine how this is going to pan out.
So Finn, could you explain to the panel your day-to-day responsibilities in your last role?
Yes, well, I worked in production, mostly of sandwiches with half a jar of jam in them. And also demolition. I concentrated mainly on electrical items and furniture. My day to day duties involved critical analysis of mostly Postman Pat in the morning, then a bit of Peppa Pig in the afternoon. If I was lucky there’d be a Fireman Sam marathon on that I could study for an hour then question my collegue, my mother, repeatedly on why Norman Price wasn’t given an ASBO. I used the time between programmes wisely by asking for biscuits and overflowing the sink in the bathroom. In the afternoon I’d torture my brothers by screaming that everything was mine and keep my sister from sleeping by making sporadic loud noises. I had sole responsibility for household aesthetics – mostly drawing on walls with marker and smearing yoghurt on sofas etc.
What major challenges and problems did you face?
Well, basically the ma and da. For example they were forever telling me not to eat dog biscuits. They were a real challenge, but I overcame this by hiding up the stairs with the canine confectionary and stashing it in my jean pockets.
Why are you resigning from your current position?
I’m resigned from my role as Professor Chaos within the O’Neill household because I am interested in a new challenge and an opportunity to use my skills and experience in a different capacity than I have in the past, in here. Do you know I can take a kitchen cabinet door off its hinges or cause a remote control to malfunction just by looking at it?
What is your greatest weakness?
I would say that I can be too much of a perfectionist in my work. Like sometimes I would spend an hour drawing on the wall in the living room. I just can’t leave that little stick man until he is perfectly formed, curly hair and all.
Sometimes, I spend more time than necessary on a task, or take on tasks personally that could easily be delegated to someone else – like getting my brothers to throw cushions all over the floor or fully unroll a toilet roll into the loo instead of myself. Although I've never missed a deadline, I suppose it is still an effort for me to know when to move on to the next task, and to be confident when assigning others work.
What is your greatest strength?
My time management skills are excellent. I get my mum up every morning at 6.33am on the button. I shout ‘Mum-meee!’ constantly until she lifts me out of bed. So you see I'm organized, efficient, and take pride in excelling at my work.
How would you describe yourself?
I'm a creative thinker. I like to explore alternative solutions to problems and have an open mind about what will work best. That and a curly-haired lunatic.
How do you handle stress in the workplace?
Stress is very important to me. With stress, I do the best possible job. The appropriate way to deal with stress is to make sure I have the correct balance between good stress and bad stress. I need good stress to stay motivated and productive. I also scream in a high-pitched tone until the cause of my stress ¬– be that the switching over of Fireman Sam or not being allowed to consume ice cream at 8am – is resolved.
Is there anything about the playschool that you’d like to know?
Are Custard Cream and pension schemes available? And also are you insured against breakages?

Wrestle Mania!

A few weeks ago I reported that my eldest son wanted to attend his First Holy Communion Mass as Darth Vader.
At the time the boy refused to wear an ordinary suit and was convinced that the Darth Vader get up would render him virtually unstoppable, with an off-the-chart midichlorian count and a deep, smoky heavily computerised voice that would render his classmates speechless when he did the whole ‘Amen’ thing at the altar.
A few other people were concerned also. I was stopped no less than 20 times over the course of the week by complete strangers, spoken to by the school principal, offered a slot on the radio to talk about my family’s would-be jaunt to the chapel in funny gear, offered money to go to Mass in a metallic bikini and a television camera crew were all set to document our family as we got into our Star Wars attire and attend the church. The lady trying to sell me the TV idea – using her level seven Klingon powers of persuasion I imagine – described the proposed programme as being kind of like ‘my Big Fat Gypsy Wedding in Space’.
That wasn’t really the theme I had envisaged when dreaming about my boy’s special day, so I declined.
Besides Daniel has gone completely off the idea, and completely off Star Wars. There’s a mountain of expensive Star Wars toys lying dormant in the corner of his room. Obie Wan Kanobie sits on an idle space cruiser waiting for a space adventure that will never happen. Yoda sits cross-legged on the shelf waiting to converse in condescending and confusing tones to anyone who will listen. A battle cruiser sits silently under the bed, it’s little plastic pilots stare out at odd socks and missing jigsaw pieces, dreaming of the glory days when they flew missions around the rose bushes in the back garden.
My boys’ new fad is wrestling. The bane of mothers everywhere.
We must spend Saturday mornings watching giants of men – with silly names such as Triple H and Ric Flair – jump around a boxing ring in their pants to the soundtrack of bad eighties rock.
My boys spend hours out on the front lawn practising dangerous moves with their wrestler mad mates. There is an injury approximately every 33 minutes and I’m there, like the St John’s Ambulance, with ice packs and ice cream when Indian Deathlock or the Modified Swinging Neckbreaker goes wrong.
I am now forced to go into shops and pay actual money to purchase magazines with really cross-looking, sweaty, brief-attired gentlemen on the front for £5.99 a pop. My boy’s bedrooms are adorned with posters of big scary undertaker impersonators and men with names like ‘Smack Down’. What ever happened to gently, cuddly Winnie the Poo who used to gaze in a friendly manner down from their walls?
This week my boy and his friend had the wrestling match to rival all wrestling bouts out on the street. The fight got dirty – somebody tried an illegal Running Over-the-Shoulder Powerslam – and my boy came home with a shiner which covered half his face.
Yes the bluish tinge of his bruised skin matches his shirt to near perfection.
Yes, it looks awful.
Yes, I have pondered the thought that the Darth Vader mask and cloak might look better in the photos than a big black eye.
I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies and that the boy isn’t insisting on going to the church dressed as a wrestler. At least he will be wearing a proper suit. I feel turning up at the chapel in a pair of red pants with lightning signs on the sides and a silver cape might be a bridge too far.